Welcome Rochelle and all other Friday Fictioneers, today i’m late again, its Friday by my reckoning which should be the time of posting these little tales, but the powers that be insist on Wednesday being the kick off date, and due to a severe bout of Man-flu I have been way laid, but fear not, I have returned to scribble a tale off the top of my head about a roundabout, a photo taken by C E Ayr.
I’ve just had a thought which relates back to an incident over 20 years ago, probably nearer 25, when I travelled to the cash machine. So without further ado.
On My Marks…
They’d been up for days, eyes techno wide and bloodshot, everywhere covered with bodies, bottles, cans, Rizlas, ashtrays, the fire still glowing.
The sudden extreme realisation of communal munchies had led to Ned volunteering to take the cash cards and PIN numbers down to Eccles to get money out for the pub; some Guinness and crisps should do it.
Ned was off his head and had been ages and they lived on the edge of Salford, he had access to everyones meagre bank resources.
Crossing the M602 roundabout they heard snoring from within the bushes.
“Fucking hell Ned!! Wake up!!”
100 words on the nose, true story too!! Not telling who it was, you’ll have to buy me a pint or two for the full story.